


Stuffed Comfort

by Ozzyyy



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eret Needs A Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Fluff, Gen, He/Him Pronouns for Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Post-Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stuffed Toys, Tired Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot is Not Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28870500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozzyyy/pseuds/Ozzyyy
Summary: He's an adult. Wilbur Soot? An adult. He knows it. Everyone does. Big man, went to war against a country, died, came back, now he's meant to do it all again. And Wilbur can, because he's strong and an adult and he definitely doesn't need some... some stuffed shark to get through the hard nights.Fuck. He needed the stupid thing, didn't he?
Relationships: Eret & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 27
Kudos: 284





	Stuffed Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> tw: nightmares/ minor graphic violence depiction at the beginning
> 
> im real tired so i'll make this quick! im doin' a small psych study on my own about the importance of stuffed animals for recovery from trauma and mental illness.

He's an adult. Wilbur Soot? An adult. He knows it. Everyone does. Big man, went to war against a country, died, came back, now he's meant to do it all again. And Wilbur can, because he's strong and an adult and he definitely doesn't need some... some stuffed shark to get through the hard nights. 

Fuck. He needed the stupid thing, didn't he? 

Coming back to life wasn't easy. Dying once was hard enough, but dying twice was a fucking nightmare. Especially because it didn't work the other three times they tried it. It was like getting an IV but the nurse kept missing the vein. A damn nightmare. 

He'd missed his family so much, seeing Tommy was a breath of fresh air. Getting to hug him was healing. There was no reason for Tommy to forgive him. In fact, Wilbur had been prepared to work hard to earn back the boy's affection, but Tommy'd broken any idea of that the second they saw each other. He'd joke about how Tommy always got away with breaking the rules that way, but he was too busy wiping his tears to keep them from falling in the boy's hair as they held each other close for the first time in what felt like years. 

Seeing them was good. And Wilbur had his fill of pushing himself into the embrace of everyone willing to hold him. Only, there was a memory in the back of his skull that itched. 

Loneson. His shark. 

Loneson had been given to him by Phil was he was a kid, and he brought him all the way to Pogtopia as he grew. It was a little worn, the soft fabric now textured and stained in spots with mud or dirt. But he couldn't see himself waking without that little shark nearby. Something about a constant stuffed companion that wasn't there to hurt, couldn't hurt, was appealing. That, plus the memories and nostalgia of better times would remind him that he was human. 

Now, he had no idea where it was. In the mix of Ghostbur and Alivebur memories, there was a clash and overwrite. Some things were simply lost in the shuffle or crowded by overlapping views of a situation. Ghostbur would remember things much differently from Alivebur, and vice versa. 

Loneson had been an unfortunate victim in the crossfire, and Wilbur had no idea where he was. Ghostbur might've known, but any memories pertaining to Pogtopia were so blurred and empty that he had no idea if Loneson made it to the spirit's mind. And Alivebur had been so fueled by rage and spite that happy things were dulled and mulled into twisted perceptions. All he had were the unaffected, or any memories that came before L'manburg. 

Obviously, not very helpful for locating his lost shark friend. He could ask Tommy, he would've seen it in their time at Pogtopia, but every time he got close, he felt his mind reel with shame. So, most likely, Tommy wasn't supposed to know. Phil might know, but Wilbur's an adult! He's in his 20s! That's-- he's basically old now!

His options narrowed and Wilbur sufficed with Loneson probably being lost forever. 

Even if that kept him up at night. Tossing and turning and holding pillows Eret handed him when he first moved into the castle. It wasn't the same. The ugly truth was that he needed that fuckin' thing. And that if he didn't have it, at least knowing it was destroyed was better than thinking of it somewhere, rotting in that cavern like he'd been all that time ago. 

But he's an adult. He's a man. So he turns over, squeezes his eyes shut, and pretends he doesn't care. 

Wilbur can't pretend forever, though. Especially with the nightmares that plague him in his sleep. 

Dark shadow mirrors of loved ones, wings spread wide, sword brandished in hand. The most horrible pain he's ever felt burning him alive. Begging, pleading, for death. For silence. Peace. Horrified looks that Tommy gives him when he was a ghost or when he was alive spin around his skull. Ruins of everything and everyone, bodies scattered. And it was his fault, because who's else could it be? 

You don't blow up a nation and get to walk away. He waits for punishment, for execution. But execution brings him to that fucking roof, watching a goddamn child get shot point blank by fireworks. He actually shot him. He fucking shot Tubbo. 

Tommy's screaming pleas for Tubbo to move, to say something, rings so loudly in his ears that he presses his palms against his head, fingers curling in his hair. He's never heard something more horrifying then the way Tommy wails. And knowing he was the cause of it? Tommy only yells like that once more, then L'manburg is destroyed and Wilbur stands in the center of the flames. 

The sweat on his skin beads and pools around his forehead as he thrashes himself awake, whimpers and pleas to wake up still ghosting his lips. Fuck, he feels sick. Wilbur's barely aware of the space around him before he's throwing off the blankets and stumbling into the nearest bathroom, gripping the edge of a cauldron he spies on the way instead, as a better alternative. 

Tears and perspiration mix as they drip from his features, slipping off his top lip and into the cauldron he's trying very hard not to throw up into. Tommy's screams, Tubbo's blood-- it's all still too real and he doesn't know where he is, but he wishes he was dead right about now.

He eases himself to his knees, still bent over in case his stomach makes another rolling nausea wave. 

There's sleepy mumbles beside him, and Wilbur swallows the thick wad of spit in the back of his throat to wave them off. 

"S'just me, Wil," That voice is too deep to be anyone but Eret, rasped with nighttime exhaustion, "Are you okay?" Wilbur sees them move into his peripheral, crouching beside him. 

"Bit redundant of a question, Eret." Wilbur croaks, groaning when he feels blood, sticky and tacky, on his palm. It's not there, it's not real-- 

"What do you need?" They ask, voice low, reaching out a tentative hand, slow and steady in case Wilbur wasn't receptive, to his shoulder. He ignores the way he shudders under the touch and leans into it, lowering his forehead to the basin edge instead of answering. 

"Water?" 

Wilbur nods, hiccuping. He presses the heel of his palm against his cheeks, dashing away the hot streaks of tears. He knows it's not really what he needs right now, but it's better then being on his knees, half to vomiting, begging for a plush shark.

Eret hums and stands, leaving Wilbur without an anchor to reality. It's not on purpose, but without the firm hand on him, Wilbur feels himself drift. It's not real, the blood. The sounds that still-- STILL-- burn his eardrums with force. 

He feels a hot flash of nausea flip his stomach and he zips his lips shut through the wave. He's not hearing voices that aren't there from memories of the past. That's what crazy people do. And Wilbur isn't crazy anymore, Alivebur was crazy and he's not Alivebur, not anymore so why does he feel so fucking sick to his goddamn stomach with every whispered promise of destruction-- 

"Loneson." His resolve folds as he lets out the name in a choked sob. 

Eret, padding down the hallway, places the glass of water next to Wilbur with furrowed eyebrows.

"Loneson? What's that?" 

"Who." Wilbur corrects, pressing his face into the crook of his elbow. 

"Who," Eret amends with a nod, "is Loneson?"

"My shark." Wilbur warbles, "He's a shark plushie n' I can't find him. I need.. I need him. Please." It feels as shameful as it was in his head, face burning. He's a fucking adult who insists upon the correct pronouns of his shark. The please comes out more weak than he'd like.

Eret's eyebrows raise, "That's yours? It's been in my lost and found for awhile. I figured it was someone's, but no one came to collect." 

Wilbur feels like he could cry, "Loneson?" He whispers. 

"Yeah-- yeah, I have Loneson, Wilbur, wait here." Eret stands, lightly jogging into a separate room with piled boxes and shelves, objects placed on the shelves. They step back out a second later, closing the door behind them, a stuffed shark under their arm.

"I go to Pogtopia to pick up antiques. Things for the museum. I found him a couple weeks after Manburg went up. It felt too important to leave behind," They frown at the memory, "I couldn't imagine anyone on the server leaving him behind, so I took him in. Waited for someone to claim him." They plop down next to Wilbur, noticing the way his watering eyes track the plush. 

"Loneson missed you, I think." Eret smiles, holding out the toy. 

In seconds, Wilbur snatches the shark from their hands and holds it tight to his chest, like he was returning his heart to it's rightful place. A pitiful sob wracks his body, burying his face in it's mink fabric. His thumbs trace along the fins in a familial motion. 

Blood and screams fade from mind as he breathes in the familiar smell. It's different, probably from all his time spent in Eret's castle, but it's still Loneson. It's still his little plush shark Phil gave him. It's home. And his shark friend can always drive all the bad thoughts away. He can hear the fast thump in his chest slow and steady itself, his breathing evening out. 

"Thank you." Wilbur croaks, eyes still squeezed shut, "I know it's stupid." 

"It's not stupid at all, actually." Eret muses, pulling their knees to their chest and crossing their arms over the top, "We've all been through a lot. Having something to hold at night isn't a crime." Eret pulls their cloak around their form to keep the shivers away, "I have Ted, Niki has Fungi, Tubbo has Squeaks, Tommy has Henry. Something to remind us that we were kids. That we can be," 

They pause, tracing the edge of their sunglasses with their thumb, "That we can use our hands for something more than violence." 

Wilbur nods, listening quietly with Loneson still pushed against his cheek. He gets it, he really does, but he's very tired and relieved that it looks like he's falling asleep. 

Eret notices with a chuckle, "Sorry, I tend to wax poetic." 

"It's alright, it's... a good distraction." 

"Do you feel better now?" Eret asks, handing the glass from Wilbur's side and into his hand. He takes a small sip, relishing in the cool feeling through an otherwise overheating body. 

"Loads." Wilbur admits, "Loneson is... is very important to me." 

"Good. Have things that are important to you. I'm grateful that I could bring him back to you." 

"Thanks for not," Wilbur purses his lips, snaking a hand through his sweat slick hair, "Making fun of me." 

Eret raises an eyebrow, "You don't have to thank me for being decent." 

"You'd be surprised how rare decency is these days." 

Eret doesn't reply to that, letting out a thoughtful hum. They stand, holding a hand out to Wilbur. 

"Back to sleep? Or are you not feeling up to it?" They ask, "If you want to stay up, there's a library I just added that has books to read. If that's still... something you enjoy." 

"I always enjoy a story," Wilbur grins, taking the hand and pulling himself shakily off the ground, "But I think I can go back to sleep now." 

Eret nods, "Good. If you still need something, you can always come find me. I'm not far," They gesture with their head down the hallway to what Wilbur presumed was their room.

"Thank you, Eret, seriously." 

"No problem. Get some rest, you need it." 

Wilbur snorts at that, avoiding said can of worms, and disappears into his room. He shuts the door softly behind him, Loneson still tucked under his chin. Now, when he slides back into bed, it doesn't feel as intimidating. It's not a march to a nightmare, but a bit comfier of a place to at least rest, if not sleep. 

He presses his face into the shark, arms still crossed over it in a tight hug. There was no way he was going to let Loneson go. 

Wilbur sleeps the best he has in years. And Eret, peeking to check on the man in the morning, grins when he decides maybe a few more hours of rest for him wasn't the worst idea.


End file.
